In the Land of Gods and Monsters
by natcat5
Summary: "I forget, sometimes," says Arthur, cigarette hanging idly from his fingertips, eyes unfocused and gaze far-off. "I forget that we're Gods." "You mean monsters," corrects Francis. "Same thing," growls Arthur.


**This is so weird and messed up and uh, I'm sorry? This hit me last night and then it wouldn't leave me alone all day and I ended up spending my afternoon writing it so, here.**

/

"I forget, sometimes," says Arthur, cigarette hanging idly from his fingertips, eyes unfocused and gaze far-off. "I forget that we're Gods."

"You mean monsters," corrects Francis, blowing a ring of smoke into the air and twirling a strand of hair absently around the fingers of his free hand. He tilts his head and smirks indulgently at the other man, who scowls before turning his face away.

"Same thing," growls Arthur, dropping the fag and squishing it beneath the heel of his foot.

/

He tries to keep his Sundays free.

Monday to Friday he is busy signing paperwork, taking phonecalls, sitting with his boss and advising when he can, when he's asked. Rearranging his schedule to accommodate visiting diplomats and Nations, figuring out dates for future World Meetings and the like. This work usually bleeds into Saturday, his desk at home piled up with sheets of white and yellow and pink, the scribble of the pen echoing around his empty London flat.

He tries to keep his Sundays free.

If he can, he ventures out into the city. Sometimes in a sweatervest and a loosely buttoned trenchcoat. Sometimes in a ripped jacket and jeans, a black t-shirt with the name of some band on it, piercing holes that never heal filled with industrials, studs, hoops. Some eyeliner, if he can be bothered.

He used to try and get out on Sundays. Take a step away from the cities, the chaos, and find his way to his empty house in the west of Lancashire. That old mansion half-forgotten by time, close enough to the channel that he can smell the sea, taste the salt.

He used to try and get out on Sundays, but too often his Sundays are punctuated by emergency calls from his boss, or from members of the government who don't know who he is, exactly, but know that he's important enough that deferring to him is a necessity.

He is rarely able to keep his Sundays free.

But that's the price, he supposes, of being a Nation. Of being a representative for a land, a people, a culture. The paperwork, the responsibility, the endless phonecalls, are all merely a part of the job. An expected part of his existence as a living embodiment of a country.

Except.

He gets the feeling it's really, really not.

/

"Remember that time I cut off your head?" Arthur asks, leaning against the side of the bridge. His head is tilted slightly, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in contemplation. His gaze drifts over to Francis, who merely snorts and raises an eyebrow at the other man.

"Which time?" he replies sarcastically, "At least tell me which century you're thinking of. _Really, _Arthur."

The corner of Arthur's lips jerk upwards for a second, before he turns his face away, gazing out at the swirling darkness of the Seine.

"I forget sometimes," he says quietly, half to himself, and Francis shoots him a contemptuous look, snorting once.

"It's easy to do," he replies, turning so that his eyes are on the city, and not the river. "In fact, it's advisable. Live in the present, not the past, as people nowadays are so fond of saying."

There's a note of bitterness in his voice, something curdling in the slight twinge of his accent, a jagged note to his normally smooth tone. The air smells like fuel exhaust and the breeze wafting off of the river tastes like pollution. Francis chuckles humourlessly and spits onto the ground.

"Moving forever forward, never looking back," comments Arthur, his voice strange and without intonation, like he's echoing words that aren't his own. "Is this where we're meant to end up, Francis? Is this who we're meant to be?"

" 'supposed to' and 'meant to' are such poisonous words," says Francis idly, his teeth bared in what's more of a snarl then a smile. "We are what we are. And what we are are washed up empires who both have more paperwork, more emails, more missed phone calls then we know what to do with sitting waiting for us at home. Welcome to the present, Arthur. Do you prefer it over the singing of steel in your hands as you sever my neck from my spine?"

Arthur stares at Francis for a long moment, his eyes hooded, but not as cloudy and unfocused as they've been of late. His lip trembles a bit, before he snaps his head away with a vicious sound, his lips curled back and his teeth grit.

"I thought we were Gods," he bites out after a minute of silence, his voice almost a growl, "Monsters."

Francis laughs, and it's a grating sound, soured by smoke and smog, all curled up in his throat and filling his lungs. "The world no longer has any room for Gods and Monsters, my dearest _Angleterre."_

/

His favourite is Bess. Was Bess. Will always be Bess.

Out of all his rulers, she is the one who understands him best. She sees him for what he is, not a figurehead, not a pet to dress up, not a symbol, not a tool. But a man and God. A person and a Nation. Something small and something great.

She smiles indulgently when he returns dripping in blood and gore, and laughs outright when a diplomatic meeting ends with Spain's blood dripping from his mouth.

_How long will it take him to heal? _She asks, stroking the parts of his hair that have stiffened into bloody spikes, _How soon until you can tear him apart again?_

_Whenever I want, _he answers with a grin, and Bess smiles and presses her lips to his, lets the blood mingle with the scarlet paint across her lips.

She understands him. She understands _them. _She lets him loose where his other bosses kept him chained up tightly. She sets him on the other Nations and does not shy away when they reveal their true nature, when they tear at each other. When they hack at each other with swords and axes and then throw them away to fight with nails and teeth.

Bess, he thinks, comes the closest to understanding the feeling of _This is mine _and _I want that _and _Give it to me now. _She wants as well, she wants and she craves and she helps him put an end to Spain, helps him begin to _claim _and _take _the way his blood has been telling him to do for _years. _

It's a fire that never stops burning. Now that he has the power to do so, all he wants to do is _take. _All he wants to do is grow and fight and beat everyone down beneath him. It's in their blood, to want. To fight. There's not a Nation that wasn't born from blood and that didn't grow from war. They fight with swords whenever they can and fight with teeth whenever they can't. Humans don't fully understand this. Humans are violent but they also crave peace. There's nothing in humanity that can understand the way Nations fling death in each other's faces like stones. The way they casually impale one another, stab swords into guts like it's nothing, walk around with blood dripping from fingers from faces from teeth and revel in the feeling. The warmth from a fire is nothing compared to the warmth from the blood of a Nation lying defeated and disemboweled at his feet.

It's not a feeling that humans can understand.

But Bess understands.

_What are you going to do the next time you see France? _She asks, smearing blood across his cheek with her thumb.

_Rip off his head and stick it on a pike, _he replies immediately, mouth quirking upwards into half a grin, before he lowers his head and presses his dripping lips to her knuckles. _For you, my Queen. _

She smiles.

/

"I think I get it worse than others," says Arthur, his mouth pulled down into a frown, one hand worrying at a loose thread on his shirt.

"Of course you do," affirms Francis with a shrug, smoke curling up out of the corner of his mouth, cigarette hanging loosely, "You almost won. You almost had it. You almost took all there was to take. And then you had nothing. A _commonwealth._" Francis laughs, and it's an ugly sound. He doesn't put on any masks with Arthur, not when they're alone like this. They've known each other too long and have too complicated a relationship for Arthur to play the gentleman and for Francis to play the romantic. Not when they're alone.

"I like it best when I'm done up like a punk," Arthur continues, still fiddling with his clothing, "Combat boots and brass knuckles. Carrying a lead pipe or a baseball bat. It feels the most familiar."

"The forgotten youth of every country feel like they're fighting an endless war," muses Francis, breathing a ring of smoke out into the air, "And I'm sure beating unsuspecting citizens within an inch of their life is therapeutic for you. Can't imagine how you'd stay sane without it."

Arthur's eyes narrow and he passes his tongue over dry, cracked lips, tasting blood. His eyes shut with a shudder, and he grimaces.

"That's one debate we never seem to finish," he grits out, eyes still shut, "How wrong is it to hurt our own citizens? Aren't we just hurting ourselves?"

"The favoured counterargument is that life is fleeting and ultimately meaningless for humans." Retorts Francis smoothly, removing his cigarette to let the white stick dangle loosely from his fingers. "How many die every day? How many die in every war? How many die with every conflict and petty upheaval? A single human can change the course of history, yes, but billions more live out their lives having less of an effect than a pebble has on a pond."

Francis grins, and the expression on his face is condescending, indulgent.

"So beat up your hapless Englishmen in the back alleys when you feel the urge, Arthur," he purrs, "Better them than the French Representative. We have to be wary of international incidents, nowadays."

Arthur scowls and Francis throws back his head and laughs.

/

He visits France, after Robespierre is dead.

France has a ring of red around his neck, a scar of puckered flesh. His eyes are sunken and shadowed, flitting from side to side nervously, his lips pulled back in a sneer.

"Say what you will," he spits, his voice raspy and strangled, like the guillotine is still pressing down on his windpipe, "At least my people are no longer a slave to the monarchy. At least we have tasted _true _liberty."

"And you have the corpses to show for it," retorts England, unable and unwilling to stop himself from grinning. "The Leviathan falls and the entire country tumbles into ruin. How quickly they turn on each other! How fast they yearn to spill each other's blood! Tell me France,"

He leans close, and France recoils with a hiss. But England's stronger than he is now, has a more stable country, is not crippled by months of death, murder, and fear. He brings one hand up to encircle France's neck, to cover up that ring of red, and leans in close.

"How is it that _we _are the monsters?"

France snarls and jerks himself out of England's grip, brings his knee up into the other man's chest and slaps at his face. England merely steps back with a grin, his eyes glittering.

"Does your liberty taste like blood, France?" he preens, "Is this what you wanted? What a fine Nation you are, lapping up the blood of your own people like a cat from a saucer."

"The blood was spilt to keep the country free of the corruption of monarchy," growls France, backing away from England with one arm up defensively, protecting his bruised throat. "Innocents may have died, but the cause was for the good of the country, for the Nation-,"

"You once told me Marie was your favourite Queen," interrupts England, his lips curled up in a snarl, "Did her head lie still on the chopping block? Or did it roll down the stairs to rest at your feet?"

"Humans die, _Angleterre_," snarls France viciously, "Nations do not. There is a greater good the people must serve. And we _bathe _in blood, England. You _know _we do."

There's a beat of silence between them, a pause, and England's lips curl back into a predatory grin. "Of course," he breathes, taking a step forward, "Just making sure this Great _Terror _hadn't made _you _forget."

France's laughter is choked, forced out, and he shoots England a look of grim understanding, acceptance, before sneering.

"As if either of us could ever," he breathes, his voice a wheeze, "I'm flattered, truly, that you came all this way just to check up on me. Or is it that you've grown restless, and want someone weakened to tear apart?"

"Don't pretend you're not boiling as well, France," counters England, his head tilted and nostrils flaring, "Our countries are at war, after all."

"So come here, you beast," snaps France, pupils dilating and teeth bared, "Come tear off my skin and break my bones like you so desperately want to. And I will slice into your throat, lay your neck bare and let my blade descend, so you can stop pretending your people don't die for you as well. So you can stop pretending your streets don't run red with blood each time the religion of your monarch changes. You _wretched, self-righteous-," _

England lunges forward with a snarl and digs his nails into France's cheeks, pulls him in to bite at his lips. As promised, France slices at England's throat, struggles to maintain his grip as their skin becomes slick with blood.

"_Don't forget," _growls England, even as France bites through the cloth of his shirt and into his shoulder. "_Don't forget."_

/

"You forgot," tsks Francis with an admonishing look.

"I forgot," agrees Arthur with a sigh, rubbing his forehead and looking down at the vibrating phone resting in his other hand. "A meeting with America in London. How could I forget?"

"Perhaps you blocked itfrom your memory," offers Francis helpfully, a teasing smirk on his face, "You know how the two of you tend to get on."

Arthur makes an _hmph _sound, typing away at the touch screen with a scowl. Francis watches him for a few seconds his expression smug at first, but then contemplative. He tilts his head, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the wall.

"He never fought you for it, did he?" He asks, his eyes narrowing the slightest amount. Arthur's eyes flicker up briefly, before returning to the glowing screen of his phone. "For what?" he responds distractedly, still tapping speedily. Francis rolls his eyes and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, giving Arthur a flat, unimpressed look.

"For the world, you deliberately obtuse fool," he snorts, before his eyes take on a harder edge, his mouth straightening out of its previous teasing smirk. "He took it from you like you took it from me and Spain. But he didn't do it like you did, did he? Didn't rip you apart, didn't christen himself as King with your blood. And you didn't try and rip out his throat when the power started to shift either. You didn't scream and claw and fight when he took your crown."

Arthur pauses in his typing, looking up at Francis with hooded eyes, lips colourless and pressed together tightly.

"The times had already changed," Arthur says stiffly, like it physically pains him to say so, "By the time Al- by the end of the war I was broke, everyone was tired, and the world was finished with the old order. America's bomb meant that no one could fight as they used to, including Nations. You _know_ it, too. Yet you're calling _me _deliberately obtuse?"

Francis's smirk returns and he tosses his head and laughs.

"Perhaps that's how he won then, hm?" he muses, his one hand under his chin, "Somehow managing to take the spark out of the Lion himself. Managing to make it so that you didn't _want _to fight. It is a great feat, admirable even, that without even dirtying his hands he was able to reduce the great British Empire to…this."

He gestures at Arthur with a loose wave of his hand, and Arthur's eyes flash, his nostrils flaring as he shoves his cellphone back into his pocket with venom.

"Mind yourself, frog," he spits viciously, "I'm not above slitting your throat and letting you bleed out in a back alley for a little while. Remind myself how your blood feels tacked under my fingernails. Feels like it's been awhile." He bares his teeth, eyes flashing, and Francis blinks in surprise, before smiling.

"And cause an international incident?" He purrs, "Dearest Angleterre, you wouldn't _dare_."

He's pressed up against the wall in under a second, a pocketknife pressed up underneath his chin and blood welling up beneath the blade. Arthur's eyes are narrowed and feral, pupils dilated and teeth still bared into a snarl. Francis inhales sharply and his mouth twists into a crooked grin.

"_Ooh_," he breathes, tongue snaking out to lick over his lips, "_There you are_."

The blade slices through his skin like it's paper, and England smiles.

/

France's entire front is covered in his blood and England's got it splattered across his face. He looks pleased about it though, tongue flicking out to lick at a dried spot close to his mouth every now and then.

It's night, so they make it back to France's house without drawing attention to themselves. As soon as the door's shut behind them England's on him like a leech, biting at his lips and slipping his hands under his shirt to dig his nails into his sides.

"We're not even _close _to being at war," moans France, head thrown back as England begins mouthing and nipping at his throat, sucking at the blood drying stickily on his skin. "Why the assault?"

"I'd forgotten," breathes England, "This world, this time- i-it made me forget. And I can't- I can't _forget _France. I can't forget what this feels like."

"To think, I spent centuries trying to defeat you and it all it takes to make you crumble is paperwork and an enforced schedule," teases France with a grin, gripping England's hips and pushing him back against a wall, "Your eyes have been glazed over for years, _Angleterre. _Did you really forget what it was like to taste blood on your lips?"

"How do you _not?_" groans England, lips smeared with blood, breath coming out in pants as France presses a thigh between his legs, tearing of his shirt to dig his fingers in between his ribs. "The way the world is now- we can't-,"

"It's better….for…the humans…like this," pants France leaving bloody bite marks on England's shoulder between words. "This world…is better for them. And they _are _us, England, so we…must accept it."

"But they haven't- _hngh…_they h-haven't changed, not really-," gasps out the other Nation, arching against France and dragging sharp red lines down his back. "They still fight, make war, stab and kill each other. They still plunder each other for resources, take what isn't theirs. Want to grow, want power, kill for no reason at all-,"

"And that is why we still crave this, why we still need this, why _we _haven't changed," answers France, nipping his way down England's chest before working to tear off both of their pants. "Why we can't forget our true nature, even as the world spins promises of peace and prosperity and worldwide cooperation. Cities still burn, blood still flows. The world _thinks _it no longer has any room for Gods and Monsters, but we exist anyways."

England bares his teeth as France lowers his head towards his cock, pushing on the other's shoulder until they both go crashing to the ground, himself on top.

"Don't let me forget again," he hisses, rutting himself against France, nails leaving bloody crescent shaped marks in the others biceps, "Don't you let me forget again."

France grins, teeth and lips bloody.

"Where would I be without you, hm? If you don't taste my blood, then I can't taste _yours."_

/

The next day, Arthur's email inbox is bursting, he's got at least fifty missed text messages, and his voicemail is full, mostly containing frantic messages from his boss.

England stuffs his phone into the pocket of his jacket and forgets about it, standing in France's doorway with a taxi waiting on the curb behind him.

"I'm going to break your knees every time I see you," he promises fervently as the two of them leave the house, "To make sure neither of us forget."

France looks down at him fondly, a small smile on his lips. "And I will twist each and every one of those stubby little fingers until they crack, help remind you what pain feels like. Because I adore you, _Angleterre, _I really do."

England smirks at him, before leaning in, pressing a closed mouth kiss to France's lips, before biting down viciously. France returns in kind, reaching up with one hand to cup England's cheek before pulling the other's top lip between his teeth and _tearing. _

There's blood smeared and dripping down both of their mouths, and England looks happier than he has in years.

"Don't forget," teases France as England begins to move towards the taxi, licking the blood off of his lips with an appreciative noise. England presses his fingers to the pulsing wounds on his mouth and blows him a kiss.

/

**Bess is Queen Elizabeth, a.k.a the one who always claimed to be 'married to England' and the one everyone makes movies about.****  
The bit after Robespierre's death is a reference to the French Revolution and the Great Terror, where the King and Queen were killed, and shortly after, a massive purge occurred where anyone accused of being 'anti-revolutionary' by Robespierre and his followers had their head cut off. A lot of people (arguably innocent people) had their heads cut off.  
When England talks about Leviathan he's talking about the book Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes, which basically said humans need a strong ruler to rule over them and free choice is a bad idea and their needs to be an all-powerful sovereign to keep order.**

**It's funny, I think I only genuinely **_**like **_**FrUK when it's fucked up in some way. Again, sorry.**


End file.
